


Smooth

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2017 [28]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Developing Relationship, Drug Use, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I tried guys but they're a bit of a hot mess, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, References to Canon-Typical Violence, Romance, Sexual Content, Spoilers, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12209781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: AU ending to Kingsman: The Golden Circle. Tequila was no stranger to mistakes; as it was, neither was Eggsy.





	Smooth

**Author's Note:**

> It occurs to me that I've fucked up the time-line, that Whiskey did not come to Kentucky before Tequila was down and out with the blue rash, so he's not supposed to be here.
> 
> BUT HE'S STAYING ANYWAY.

Tequila was no stranger to mistakes.  
  
He’d made more than his fair share of them over the years, what with the drug use (marijuana was kid shit to him by the time Champ had recruited him), the rodeo (riding broncos while high on heroin was a fuck of an experience but not especially smart), and the general fuckery that made up a lot of his pre-Statesman life.  
  
But this one, this one was…  
  
Well, it was the first time he’d ever fucked up quite so bad in front of someone he was trying to woo.  
  
There were two guys, an older Scottish guy and a younger English guy. Mr. Scotsman’s not bad looking, but Mr. Englishman- well, shit, Tequila wouldn’t mind having a ride on him. Judging from the way Mr. Englishman kept twitching, like he wanted to jump out of the chair and beat him senseless, he looked like the type that would give Tequila the ride of his goddamn life.  
  
Assuming he wasn’t an enemy.  
  
Tequila was _just_ this side of Not Stupid Enough to avoid taking someone who wanted to murder him to bed.  
  
Ginger barged in mid-intimidation technique and announced that Mr. Scotsman and Mr. Englishman were friends to the Statesmen, and boy, if Tequila did not have some egg on his face then. Especially since he’d just threatened to kill a guy they were apparently friends with.  
  
Ginger helped him to untie them, and Mr. Englishman glared at Tequila darkly. “That’s my fucking mentor you just pointed a gun at, you douche,” He growled, tense in his seat as Tequila undid the binds on his hands.  
  
“Aw, I wasn’t gonna shoot him, I promise,” Tequila assured him, trying to patch things up (he was still hoping for a ride). “You know the deal, man. What else am I supposed to think about a couple of guys what snuck into my damn super-secret workplace?”  
  
The agent rolled his eyes and shook his head.  
  
And that was when Tequila made The Mistake.  
  
“Hey, you know, I can get pretty fancy with this thing,” He said, flipping open the lighter he had very recently been threatening them with. “In fact, I can-”  
  
Untying someone with one hand and flicking open a lighter with the other was a mistake.  
  
It was a very, very big mistake.  
  
“ _JESUS FUCK!_ ”  
  
Tequila was probably not going to get to ride Mr. Englishman.  
  
In fact, Mr. Englishman was probably going to rip his dick off, given that Tequila had more or less just set his on fire.  
  
[---]  
  
So, Eggy- _Eggsy_ , sorry- was kinda pissed.  
  
Tequila wasn’t of a mind to _blame_ him, really, because if some jackoff had almost roasted his chestnuts over an open fire courtesy of a bottle of whiskey and a lighter, he probably wouldn’t be making nice-nice with them either.  
  
As it was, Tequila’s nuts had not come dangerously close to being cooked, and so they joined his other naughty-bits in being quite pleased with Eggsy’s appearance. The kid (Tequila had no idea how old he was, ‘kid’ was anything and anyone that looked younger than him) had nice hair, nice eyes, a nice face, and a fine body to boot, even if Tequila couldn’t see it all beneath the (now burnt in a rather specific place) suit.  
  
Right now, Eggsy was fucking _glowering_ at him from where he sat on the medical bed, in his underwear (and boy, if that didn’t help Tequila _at all_ ) as Ginger patched up the burns on his legs. Merlin, the Scottish guy, was alternating between focusing on Eggsy and glaring at Tequila.  
  
“I think you’re okay,” Ginger assured Eggsy, patting his knee. “The burns weren’t too bad.”  
  
“Guess that alcohol _was_ horse-piss after all,” Eggsy growled, flashing Tequila a toothy, not-actually-happy smile as he reached for his damaged pants.  
  
Tequila didn’t respond, eyes running up and down Eggsy’s bared legs. And yeah, maybe he should have been a bit more modest given that he was the reason the kid had his pants off to begin with, but Tequila was not a man known for his discretion.  
  
“What?” Eggsy snapped, tugging his pants up his legs aggressively. “What the fuck are you looking at, wanker?”  
  
“It’s a bit rude to stare at a man whose nuts you’ve nearly burnt off,” Merlin added as he dug the Statesman bottle of whiskey out of his bag to show Ginger.  
  
“Ain’t you the one what was just pissing about us having no manners?” Apparently Eggsy spoke differently when he was mad too.  
  
Yeah, that was kind of hot.  
  
But it seemed like Eggsy wasn’t being rhetorical, because he was looking at Tequila like he wanted an answer.  
  
Tequila chewed his lip for a moment, contemplating how best to word it. Then he grinned.  
  
_Ah, fuck it._  
  
“You look sexy as hell when you’re pissed, kid.”  
  
Eggsy’s jaw dropped.  
  
(That was Mistake #2 of the day.)  
  
[---]  
  
“You _really_ need to learn when to keep your mouth shut.”  
  
Tequila winced as Ginger carefully un-wedged the cork from his nostril; shame that that bottle of whiskey had been the closest thing within Eggsy’s reach when he’d finally wrapped his mind around what Tequila had said. Once it was free, he winced and rubbed his nose. “Yeah, well, maybe that guy needs to learn to deal with his aggression in a non-violent way.”  
  
Ginger snorted, and apparently decided not to dignify that with an answer.  
  
Whiskey walked through the door a moment later with the single most _shit-eating_ grin on his face. “Tequila,” he clucked. “My goodness.”  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
Whiskey turned to Ginger. “Did that little Brit really shove a cork up his nose?”  
  
“I cannot disclose the details of another Statesman’s private medical treatment while under my care,” Ginger responded robotically before very deliberately lifting the cork up to Whiskey’s eye-level and dropping it into a plastic medical baggie. Whiskey let out this long, wheezy sort of noise he made whenever he was about to have a good laugh, and Tequila glared at them both.  
  
“Man, I fucking hate you people.”  
  
“Not as much as that kid does!”  
  
Whiskey and Ginger cracked up, and Tequila figured it wouldn’t be _too_ bad of him to smoke a blunt before he went to the meeting later.  
  
He’d need something to keep him quiet if he didn’t want an umbrella shoved up his nose later.  
  
[---]  
  
“Tequila, what the hell is that on your neck?”  
  
[---]  
  
Tequila woke up feeling like someone had dropped him in the God-damn Arctic.  
  
And Ginger Ale was looking at him the way she usually did: With a fine mixture of exhaustion and fondness.  
  
“The fuh penned?” Tequila stumbled painfully through the words with numb lips and a swollen tongue.  
  
“Boy oh boy, have you missed a lot. What’s the last thing you remember?”  
  
“Uh…”  
  
For some bizarre and unholy reason, the first memory that came to mind was of him dancing through the halls of the Statesman complex, bedecked in his cowboy hat and a jumpsuit.  
  
“Goddamn, Ginger, did I make a fool of myself?”  
  
“Goodness no,” Ginger cooed, smile taking on a distinctively feral edge. “Nothing too bad.”  
  
“Bad nuff that dew recoded it, doe,” Tequila grunted.  
  
Ginger’s smile widened. “Oh Tequila, I’m obligated to record any unusual behavior resulting from a medical condition to better observe and cure it.”  
  
Tequila gave a nasally, mocking laugh (or as good of one as he could give right then).  
  
Champ came in not long after that. “Good to see you up, son,” He said with unmistakable fondness. “How much have you told him, Ginger?”  
  
Any traces of a smile disappeared from Ginger’s face. “Nothing much, sir. Only things directly relating to him, and the fact that the cure was sent out.”  
  
Champ scratched his head, and in his eyes Tequila recognized a familiar, unpleasant emotion:  
  
Sadness.  
  
“Who died, Champ?” Tequila asked quietly.  
  
Champ sighed. “Sit down, son.”  
  
[---]  
  
“The _fuck_ -”  
  
All at once, Tequila abruptly comprehended not only the gravity of the situation, but the (presumably) unchanged nature of his relationship with the sexy little Kingsman guy, and lowered his voice.  
  
“-the fuck happened?”  
  
“Landmine,” Eggsy responded flatly, taking a swift swig of whatever was in the flask he was holding.  
  
Merlin was getting patched up in the infirmary. The guy had… Shit, he didn’t have legs anymore, at least not from the knee down. He looked _dead_ , but then, so did Butterfly-Guy when they’d found him outside that loony-bin church.  
  
“Fuck.” He watched as Eggsy took a nice, long swig from the flask. He was drinking that shit like water. “He gonna be alright?”  
  
“Fuck if I know.”  
  
“I’m sorry, man.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
It was the most hollow, dead-inside-sounding “Thanks” that Tequila had ever heard, and he used to run with addicts and drug-dealers.  
  
“They’ve been through the ringer, son,” Champ had told him before, quietly. “They’re the only three left in their entire God-damn organization. Go easy on ‘em, yeah? Be gentle. And by gentle, I mean don’t be a goddamn prick.”  
  
It was all in good heart, because Tequila knew that Champ did not think he was a prick (“Ya just fucking _act_ like one sometimes,”), but even if Tequila was inclined to be a prick today, the look on Eggsy’s face would have dissuaded him in a heartbeat.  
  
You’d have to be a born-and-bred prick to fuck with someone who looked as sad as this kid did.  
  
So Tequila reached out, squeezed Eggsy’s shoulder, and said, “Hang in there, kid. The three of you are alive, and that’s a start.”  
  
Eggsy said nothing, and Tequila left it at that.  
  
[---]  
  
“You _must_ be taking the piss.”  
  
Tequila looked up. He’d been sitting on the small balcony that attached to his room, staring out at the beautiful goddamn sunset and contemplating all of the shit that had happened while he was out cold.  
  
Oh, and he was smoking pot.  
  
That was a thing too.  
  
“Is that some sort of euphemism for ‘taking a hit’ in jolly old England?”  
  
Eggsy stared at Tequila, open-mouthed. Tequila wasn’t sure why the kid was standing on his porch, looking considerably livelier than he had the day before but he was in street-clothes, so it probably wasn’t business-related. “No, it’s a euphemism for ‘are you fucking kidding me, you fucking dumbass’! What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”  
  
“‘S just _pot_ , Jesus!” Tequila waved his hand lazily, nearly dropping the blunt between his fingers.  
  
“Are you _shitting_ me, mate?”  
  
“Look,” Tequila drawled, “I was getting high on much worse shit when Champ found me. Trust me, this ain’t _nothing_ compared to that.” He cocked an eyebrow at the younger agent and stretched out the hand with the blunt in his direction. “You want a hit? It looks like you could use one.”  
  
“Right, now I _know_ you’re taking the piss.”  
  
“Christ, all the Brits so high-and-mighty ‘bout a little weed?”  
  
“ _You just got poisoned by a little bit of weed, you fucking dong!_ ”  
  
“Oh.” Tequila paused. “Right, that. Forgot about that.”  
  
Eggsy looked like he’d just had four aneurysms in the span of a minute, and finally he just waved his arms and shook his head. “Fuck, oh fuck, I don’t even care, I don’t. Fuck it all.”  
  
“You’re cheery today,” Tequila mumbled before taking another hit of his blunt.  
  
“Two of my best friends are dead, my coworkers are dead, my dog is dead, my bloody mentor’s got his legs blown off ‘cause of me, my house got blown up, I had to shove your fucking mate into a meat-grinder so he wouldn’t kill me, and my girlfriend’s dumped me. Christ, you’re right, don’t know why I’m not smiling more.” Eggsy paused, and then slapped his forehead. “Oh, and right, _you set my bloody balls on fire!_ ”  
  
Tequila shut his eyes and shuddered at the image of Whiskey’s death that was now in his head. He knew Whiskey was dead, and he knew it was because he was a traitorous sonofabitch who was gonna let millions of people (including Tequila) die, but that didn’t make the picture any nicer. “Shit.”  
  
Eggsy’s shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand over his face. “Shit. I shouldn’t have told you that.”  
  
“A meat-grinder?” Tequila inquired, voice weaker than he would like it to have been.  
  
“It’s… There was a… it’s complicated, man, I’d really like to not think about it.”  
  
“Yeah, neither would I.” Tequila hesitated, but then nudged the chair beside him with his foot, nodding to it in invitation. Eggsy scratched his head, and then sighed, walking over and sitting down.  
  
They sat in silence for a while. Tequila would have offered Eggsy a puff on the blunt, but it was nearly done and he’d never been interested in swapping bodily fluids outside of good ol’ naked wrestling.  
  
And also because Eggsy might shove it up his nose if he did, and Tequila reckoned that would hurt a hell of a lot more than a cork.  
  
“I wouldn’t have flirted with you if I’d known you had a girl,” Tequila said eventually, awkwardly. “I’m not one for adultery.”  
  
“Just setting peoples’ nuts on fire,” Eggsy grunted.  
  
“That was an accident!” Tequila groaned. “Shit, I was trying to impress you.”  
  
Eggsy’s eyes widened, and Tequila moved the blunt so that he couldn’t grab for it. “You thought I would be _impressed_ by your ability to set things on fire?”  
  
“What, you’re a spy, ain’t you? Can’t be in a profession like this without a taste for the destructive.”  
  
“You’re _mad_.”  
  
Tequila grinned.  
  
“Gotta be, for this shit.”  
  
[---]  
  
The sun set, and Tequila invited him into his room.  
  
They drank.  
  
“You need to learn new ways to impress people,” Eggsy mumbled as he examined the label on the whiskey bottle that he was currently drinking from.  
  
“I can ride a horse like a motherfucker.”  
  
“Interesting.”  
  
“I can also do tricks standing on one’s back.”  
  
Eggsy cocked an eyebrow at that, slumped back in his chair. “Like a rodeo clown, you mean.”  
  
Tequila covered his chest. “You _wound_ me.”  
  
“No, I _wounded_ you when I shoved that cork up your nose.”  
  
They drank.  
  
“I’m sorry about Whiskey,” Eggsy said later, legs dangling over the arms of the chair. “It was a shit thing for him to do, but I bet that don’t make you feel any better.”  
  
“It don’t,” Tequila agreed. “But I don’t blame you for doing it, especially with things being what they were.”  
  
They drank.  
  
“What’d you mean before, when you said Merlin went and got his legs blown off ‘cause of you?” Tequila inquired, the alcohol having dulled him just enough to not see the harm in asking.  
  
Apparently Eggsy was dulled too, otherwise he might have reacted a bit more sharply to it. “ _I_ stepped on it,” He responded, voice slurred, more from emotion than alcohol as this point in the evening. “He froze it for, like, half a second so I could get off, then he stepped on it himself so all three of us wouldn’t get blown up.” He palmed at his eyes like he might if he were crying, but Tequila didn’t see any tears. “Near I can guess, whatever froze the bomb fucked it up. He only lost his legs. Guess the suit protected the rest.”  
  
“‘M sure Ginger can help him make something that freezes bombs for longer,” Tequila assured him.  
  
They drank.  
  
After that, things got a bit hazy.  
  
One minute Eggsy was in his own chair a few feet away, and then he was on Tequila’s lap.  
  
“You like men, mmh?” Eggsy slurred.  
  
“I am not above partaking in the forbidden fruit that is sodomy,” Tequila responded, ever the wordy drunk, and for the first time, he saw Eggsy laugh.  
  
It was unclear which of them initiated the kiss.  
  
It was also unclear at what point afterwards they moved to the bed.  
  
And at some point, everything went dark.  
  
[---]  
  
“I’m, like, ninety-nine percent sure we didn’t sleep together.”  
  
Eggsy responded by retching into the toilet.  
  
Tequila’s grasp on the world of the living was tentative at best, but it was clear enough that he still had his clothes on, and he was pretty sure from the quick look he got at Eggsy as he dashed into the bathroom to puke that the younger man was still clothed as well. It wasn’t easy to get one up when you were hammered, and the fact that neither of them had their belts undone indicated that no serious hanky-panky had gone on.  
  
Eggsy stumbled back into the room looking like he’d lost a fight. There were bags under his eyes, he was even paler than he’d been the night before, and now he was shaking like a leaf. “Fuckin’ hell,” he croaked.  
  
“Didn’t think a fuckin’ Brit could drink me under the table,” Tequila muttered as Eggsy slowly, carefully lowered himself onto the bed again, curling into a ball.  
  
“Unh,” Eggsy responded. Tequila caught a whiff of mouthwash.  
  
He wasn’t feeling so great himself, but it was more a headache than nausea that had taken him down. Tequila rolled towards Eggsy and grimaced as the sun, filtered through the shades on the windows, burned into his damn eyes. He pressed his face into the blanket and squeezed them shut again.  
  
“On a scale of one to ten, how badly do you regret last night?”  
  
“Ask me again when I don’t feel like blowing every chunk I’ve ever eaten,” Eggsy groaned.  
  
“That’s gross, dude.”  
  
[---]  
  
Tequila ran into Eggsy as he was leaving the medical bay two days later.  
  
“How’s your buddy?”  
  
Eggsy shrugged, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Still asleep- he’s gonna live, though.”  
  
Whether or not Eggsy was gonna live, on the other hand, was apparently up for debate: He was pale as a ghost, dark circles around his eyes, and generally looking like a Thriller reject.  
  
_You look like shit_ , Tequila thought.  
  
“You wanna get something to eat?” was what he said out loud.  
  
Eggsy’s eyes widened a little. “You mean like a-”  
  
“I didn’t say it was like a nothing,” Tequila interjected pointedly. “Just asking if you want to get something to eat. Don’t need it to be anymore complicated than that.” He shuffled his feet a little, looked away, and then mumbled, “If you don’t want it to be, I mean, I dunno.”  
  
Eggsy ran a hand through his hair, scratched his head. “I… Yeah, what the fuck, why not?”  
  
Tequila gave a small smile.  
  
“Well, alrighty then.”  
  
He took him to a burger joint about five miles from the compound, and they made small-talk while Tequila ate and Eggsy- well- you couldn’t really call what he was doing _eating_. It was more like picking: He took small bites of food, took a damn long time to chew it, and then waited a bit before taking another bite. Tequila didn’t know if that was a Kingsman thing or an Eggsy thing, but he wasn’t the guy’s mother, he wasn’t gonna hound him to clean his plate.  
  
To boot, Eggsy still had that flask of something-or-other on his belt, and he took sips of it in-between those small bite of food. Tequila was more tempted to bring that up than he was the food thing, but that felt like a discussion that would go deep-south real quick, and they were just starting to get along.  
  
Eggsy opened up just a crack, enough to tell Tequila that he had grown up in a less-than-affluent neighborhood in London, and that with a few notable exceptions, the other candidates in his Kingsman recruitment period (as well as a few Kingsmen themselves) were less than friendly to him as a result.  
  
“The word ‘Pleb’ was thrown around a lot,” Eggsy muttered, pulling apart a piece of lettuce between his fingers. “Jokes about whether or not I worked at McDonald’s flipping burgers, ‘bout how I didn’t go to college, that sort of shit.”  
  
Tequila cracked open a little too. “Yeah, I’ve gotten the American version of that: ‘Trailer trash’, ‘white trash’, _endless_ jokes about whether or not my mother and my aunt were the same person- you grow up where I did, you get the dumb redneck hick stereotypes.”  
  
“Where _did_ you grow up?”  
  
“West Virginia.”  
  
Eggsy gave a crooked grin, probably the most genuine one Tequila had seen on him yet. “Christ alive, don’t tell Merlin that. He’s mad for John Denver.”  
  
And then, as though his brain had just hit the OFF switch on his happiness, the grin faded and Eggsy fell into a deep sulk.  
  
_Note to self,_ Tequila thought, _Dude does not like John Denver._  
  
There was probably more to it than that, but Tequila doubted he’d get to hear the full story anytime soon.  
  
[---]  
  
They were about halfway back to the compound when Tequila felt Eggsy’s hand on his thigh.  
  
Tequila glanced down, confirmed that it was indeed a hand that belonged to the only other person he knew to be in his truck at that moment, and then looked back to the road. _Reel ‘em in, Tequila, don’t pull too fast_. His inner voice of reason sounded a lot like Champ, and there was a reason for that: Champ was fucking _smart._ To date, he had never had any corks shoved up his nose by disgruntled sexual interests, which put him a few leagues ahead of Tequila in that department. Champ was the voice of wisdom and practicality, and so Tequila’s better sense sounded much like him.  
  
So Tequila didn’t do anything.  
  
Or rather, he didn’t _voluntarily_ do anything, because Mini-Tequila had a mind of his own and was starting to get a bit excited.  
  
When enough time had passed without a response, Eggsy said, “Oi. You want to pick up where we left off before?” His hand migrated a little higher, squeezing lightly so that his meaning couldn’t be misinterpreted.  
  
Mini-Tequila was fucking _ready_.  
  
Big Tequila, unfortunately, had to be the voice of reason. “Got no qualms with that, but, uh- maybe when I’m not driving?”  
  
“Pull over, then.”  
  
_Sweet Jesus Christ._  
  
Tequila pulled over. He pulled over because when you have an attractive guy in your car who’s saying ‘let’s fuck right here and now’, you take advantage of that shit, and you take advantage of it _immediately._  
  
Or, you did if you were Tequila.  
  
He put the car in park. Thankfully it was mostly rural out here- Statesmen had made a point of making sure its headquarters wasn’t something people could stumble on accidentally- so the odds of anyone driving by and seeing them were slim to none. “Just so we’re clear,” Tequila muttered, trying to compose himself even as Eggsy squeezed his thigh. “I’m not fixing to be your rebound. I mean, I flirt, yeah, but I don’t mean to be-”  
  
“Who said it had to be anything that serious?” Eggsy cut him off, fingers edging near the bulge in Tequila’s jeans and making him hiss. “A fuck’s a fuck.”  
  
There was something about that, ‘a fuck’s a fuck’, that stung, that felt wrong, but Tequila was a mushy, romantic asshole by nature, and so he merely assumed it was those sentimental impulses rearing their ugly heads again.  
  
A fuck wasn’t serious.  
  
A fuck was nice.  
  
A fuck was uncomplicated.  
  
A fuck was what had been running through his head that first day, when he’d eyed Eggsy, pissed off and soaked in whiskey, and wondered what his body looked like under that fine suit of his. He hadn’t been thinking of love, or romance, or dating- he’d been thinking of how it would feel to have Eggsy’s legs around his waist as he fucked him into the nearest surface.  
  
“Yeah, alright, whatever.”  
  
They undid their belts, Tequila’s eyes jumping to the road from time to time; now would be the time for a cop to drive by, and boy oh boy if he got arrested for public indecency _again_ Champ would rip his damn nuts off-  
  
“ _Fuck_ in’-”  
  
Tequila grabbed the steering-wheel with his left hand, head slamming back against the headrest of the seat as Eggsy grabbed his cock with a palm that’s just wet enough to stop things from getting uncomfortable.  
  
“Shit fuck goddamn sonuvawhore I’m gonna get you into bed and ride you like a fucking bull, boy,” Tequila rambled as Eggsy stroked him. He rambled when he was hot under the collar, and everything was pretty much a stream of consciousness when there was someone touching his dick. “Gonna bring you home and fuck your pretty little ass into the bed.”  
  
Eggsy chuckled, but did not stop touching him.  
  
Tequila groped around and found Eggsy’s dick, just barely remembering to lick his damn palm before trying to bring him off, and they stayed like that for a while: Tequila groaning profanity and promises and Eggsy putting two-hundred-ten-goddamn-percent into making him come.  
  
And Tequila did come, with a promise that he would- and this was an approximation, with all the blood rushing in his ears he couldn’t hear himself properly- “shove a goddamn horse-sized dildo right up your hole when I get you home”.  
  
Tequila gasped for breath, and his approximation must have been right, because Eggsy’s laughed shakily and said, “The _fuck_ is a horse… Nnh- _FUCK!_ ” Tequila felt his cock twitch, and then wetness covered his hand and wrist.  
  
Damn, Tequila really needed to watch his mouth in the future. Embarrassing shit came out of his mouth from time to time. Eggsy sighed, and Tequila could feel him shivering as he came down. After a moment, he leaned over and pressed his lips sloppily against Tequila’s.  
  
He tasted like mint; mint, of all things, after drinking from that flask all night.  
  
Working in the alcohol business for so many years- never mind his own vices- had taught Tequila a great deal about… Not even _addiction_ , per se, but unhealthy relationships with alcohol. The fact that Eggsy had popped some breath-mints in after drinking all night was a big red flag in the middle of an empty field for Tequila, because it indicated that Eggsy was trying to mask the smell and taste of alcohol on him, and that was something people tended to do when they didn’t want you to know they’d been indulging.  
  
Like they were hiding it.  
  
_Or_ , he reasoned, a shred of doubt creeping in, _he was planning on fucking you tonight and decided you didn’t want to taste the burger and alcohol combo he had earlier. Breath-mints ain’t just for alcoholics: Normal people use them too._  
  
But that didn’t feel quite right.  
  
Tequila’s gut told him that there was something more unpleasant going on, and naturally he had to figure it out in the middle of post-sex bliss.  
  
[---]  
  
They returned to base, still on the hot and heavy side and planning on returning to Tequila’s quarters so he could make good on at least some of his promises (they couldn’t cram everything he’d ended up saying into one night; in fact, it was probably safer if they didn’t try).  
  
But as they crossed the compound, a familiar voice called out to them. “Eggsy! Tequila! Hey!” Ginger came trotting over, looking delighted.  
  
“What’s up, Ging?” Tequila inquired, a sleepy grin crossing his face. She was a real cutie when she was excited, and if she hadn’t made it damn clear years ago that she wasn’t interested, he might have pursued something with her.  
  
Ginger skidded to a stop before them, then sucked in a deep breath. “Merlin’s awake.”  
  
Eggsy stared at Ginger, and then turned to Tequila.  
  
The kid had a fucking thousand-watt smile on his face, like he’d just been given proof that goddamn Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny were real.  
  
So as hot and bothered as Tequila was, he waved Eggsy off. He had two hands a bottle of lotion in his bed-stand that would get the job done. “Go on, get! Go see your friend.”  
  
Eggsy looked like he was about to say something- what, Tequila had no idea, but he did see the micro-glance the kid shot towards Ginger. Instead, he gave a quick nod, and then took off for the medical wing.  
  
[---]  
  
Tequila didn’t see Eggsy for nearly a week.  
  
Ginger hadn’t seen him; Tequila didn’t feel comfortable bothering the recuperating Merlin about it, and Galahad Sr. was downright intimidating, so he didn’t ask them either. He did his own searching, feeling all the while like a damn hound trying to chase down a rabbit of the Bugs Bunny variety.  
  
Had Tequila done something wrong? Thing seemed to be going so well, what with the whole ‘hand-jobs on the side of the road’ thing, which would have been followed by a ‘hot sex in Tequila’s bedroom’ thing. Maybe things didn’t go well with Merlin? But Ginger didn’t seem to be glum, and she definitely would be if her British counterpart’s health was poor.  
  
On day six, however, he found himself walking around on the compound, moseying past groups of tourists so _hilariously_ unaware of what it was they were actually taking a tour of, and he saw Eggsy.  
  
The younger agent was sitting at a table outside of the gift shop, a paper plate in front of him; there was a sandwich, some chips, an apple, most of which looked almost completely untouched. Apparently the slowly-picking-at-your-food thing was an Eggsy thing, not a Kingsman thing.  
  
So, it seemed, was the flask of alcohol that Eggsy was _still fucking drinking from_ , Jesus H. Christ-  
  
Tequila moseyed over, trying to look casual, and Eggsy didn’t seem to notice him until he was right beside him. “Not hungry?” Tequila nodded to the plate as he sat down on the other side of the table.  
  
Eggsy gave a small shrug and broke a chip in half. “Eh. Don’t feel good.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“Stomach.”  
  
“Don’t think the alcohol’s going to help you there, brother.”  
  
Eggsy’s eyes narrowed. “First, you’re part of a fucking liquor business, what do you care if I drink? Second, don’t call me ‘brother’; we jacked each other off in your truck last week.”  
_  
Alrighty, so I guess we’re gonna be crossing ‘incest-kink’ off the list of things to experiment with._  
  
Uncomfortably, another red flag sprang up next to the one that was already there in Tequila’s head: People who didn’t have a problem generally weren’t so fucking _snippy_ and defensive when someone suggested that they should cut back on the drinking. Hell, Tequila hadn’t even told Eggsy to stop drinking; he’d only told him it probably wouldn’t help his stomach (and that was just a commonly understood truth).  
  
And Eggsy had reacted pretty badly to the suggestion.  
  
Quite disproportionately, in fact.  
  
“Easy, man,” Tequila said, raising a placating hand. “I just don’t think you’d like a hangover on top of what you’ve already got.”  
  
For his part, Eggsy seemed to realize that he’d reacted a bit strongly, because he seemed to be holding back now. He gave a noncommittal shrug and stared moodily at his food, like it had done him some sort of personal offense.  
  
“So,” Tequila inquired delicately, aware that any discussion at this point might only serve to aggravate Eggsy further, “How’s Merlin?”  
  
Eggsy’s posture seemed to relax a little. “He’s well enough. I mean, as well as you can be when you’ve had your fucking legs blown off.”  
  
“And Butter- uh… Galahad Senior? He doing alright?”  
  
“Harry’s fine.”  
  
“And you? Apart from the stomach thing, I mean?”  
  
Eggsy hesitated. He wasn’t looking Tequila in the eye. He said, “Yeah, I’m fine,” but that dog just did not _hunt_ , because the kid looked like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in about ten years.  
  
“Hey, you, uh,” Tequila started, then stopped; quickly examining the words he’d been going for found that they were more suggestive than he was going for. It was too late to retract the offer altogether, because Eggsy was looking at him, waiting for him to finish. “You… Want to come to my room later? Watch a movie?”  
  
He wasn’t asking for sex. He wasn’t, really. Tequila thought that Eggsy looked like shit, and that, hey, they could sit together and watch a movie, because he wasn’t completely controlled by his dick, for fuck’s sake. He was trying to be nice. And see, what worried him was that Eggsy didn’t respond to the question immediately, or even within a length of time that Tequila generally considered to be not-awkward after having been asked a question. Which made him nervous that Eggsy had taken the offer as a low-key sexual proposition, given that their previous encounters had gone that way too.  
  
For the love of _God_ , he just did not know where the hell he stood after being with this guy.  
  
“Sure,” Eggsy said finally, tone completely, _enragingly_ neutral. “Sounds great.”  
  
“Great.”  
   
[---]  
   
Eggsy totally took it as a proposition.  
  
About forty-five minutes into The Good Dinosaur (fuck _off_ , it was a gift from Ginger because there were dinosaurs and cowboys in it) Eggsy, who’d been sitting next to Tequila on his bed, rolled so that he was spooning against his side. Tequila froze immediately (not that he’d been moving beforehand) before pulling his arm out from between them and resting it very, _very_ delicately around Eggsy’s shoulders.  
  
He felt a rush of… Shit, what was it? Oxytocin, that’s what it was: Ginger called it the “cuddling hormone” because it made you feel good when you touched or cuddled someone. She said it was a reward for being near another person, an incentive to get even closer to them in order to procreate. As it was, Tequila was quite happy to leave it at cuddling for the night, marveling at the fact that Eggsy had been interested in a cuddle; kid didn’t seem like the cuddly type, at least not from what Tequila had seen of him thus far.  
  
And then Eggsy said, “Did you want to have sex?”  
  
Tequila hadn’t been expecting the question, his attention torn between how nice and warm Eggsy felt tucked up at his side, and the fact that there was a batshit-crazy triceratops covered in small animals on the TV screen in front of him. When the question finally registered, he was taken aback. “What?”  
  
Eggsy gave a half-shrug and repeated himself: “Did you want to have sex?”  
  
Tequila only barely managed to catch himself before he could say something that would ruin the mood, something like ‘Where in the blue Hell did that come from?’ or ‘What is it about cartoon dinosaurs that gets you horny?’  
  
“…Not… Particularly? I mean, I wasn’t planning on it.” Tequila hadn’t been, mostly because he, _once again_ , was not some horn-dog who couldn’t go a night without sex. And also because he was pretty sure having sex during a PG-rated Disney movie was the sort of thing that could put a guy on the fast-track to Hell.  
  
Eggsy lifted his head and frowned, looking confused. “You weren’t?”  
  
“Not really, no.” Pause. “Did you want to…?”  
  
And the kid gave him that damn _look_ again, the one that Tequila could not, for the life of him, read. He couldn’t tell if Eggsy was disappointed (and hiding it), upset (and hiding it), pleased (and hiding it), or horny ( _and fucking hiding it_ ). Clearly there was something going on in the kid’s head, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure it out.  
  
“A’right.”  
  
Eggsy put his head down, this time settling it on Tequila’s chest, and laid an arm across the older man’s ribs.  
_  
Did I pick the right answer?_ Tequila thought, trying to hide his bemusement. _God, someone get me an instruction manual for this guy._  
  
That, right there, was a tiny nugget of an idea.  
  
Eggsy didn’t stir, eventually falling asleep where he was, but Tequila found that idea of an instruction manual for the younger agent culminating into something a little more realistic, a little more comprehensive.  
_  
Boy oh boy, I hope I don’t regret this._  
   
[---]  
   
Galahad the Elder was even more intimidating as Champ.  
  
See, Champ was very expressive: So long as he wasn’t on a mission or under some circumstances that required him to censor himself, you could generally read his mood just by looking at his face.  
  
Harry Hart, aka Butterfly Guy, aka Galahad Senior, was not so easy.  
  
The moment Tequila had met him- following the return of his memory, at any rate- he’d made a mental note to _never_ play poker with this guy. At least, nothing that involved a cash bet, because the bastard had a poker-face that would put some of the greats to shame, _including_ Champ. As such, If he had a choice, Tequila wouldn’t be trying to pry information from him; but his concerns for Eggsy had officially tipped into “shit I can no longer ignore” territory, and he felt like he needed to see if anyone else saw these flags that were popping up in his head.  
  
So when Hart left the medical wing on this particular day, Tequila took a breath and went after him. “Hey, Agent-”  
  
Fuck. What was he supposed to call him?  
  
“…Galahad Senior,” Tequila finished awkwardly as he approached the older man. “How’s things?”  
  
Hart cocked his head slightly. “I’m perfectly fine, Agent Tequila. And yourself?”  
  
“Doing just fine, sir. Just, uh…” Tequila scratched the back of his neck. It was pretty obvious from their interactions that Hart and Eggsy were close, and he felt like that kid who was ratting out a friend to their dad about something or other that they’d done. “I kinda… I had a question.”  
  
“Regarding what?”  
  
“Eggsy.”  
  
There was a tiny, barely noticeable shift in Hart’s posture. “And what is it that you’d like to know, Agent Tequila?”  
  
Shit. Moment of truth.  
  
“Does he, uh,” Tequila scratched his head and looked at Hart uncertainly. “I mean… I noticed he’s been drinking a lot, lately. And he doesn’t look so good. I mean, the not looking so good bit is bad, but the drinking kinda makes it worse. He’s been drinking a lot, along with the not-looking-good thing, that’s what I’m trying to say. I don’t know if that’s normal for him or not.”  
  
Jesus wept, that was horrible.  
  
Hart stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head. “No, it isn’t normal for Eggsy to drink to excess.”  
  
“Oh. Maybe it’s just the stress of the whole… Everybody getting blown up thing.” _And the ‘shoving a guy into a meat-grinder’ thing._  
  
“You might be right about that,” Hart muttered. Tequila saw a flicker of concern pass through the older man’s eye before it disappeared, hidden away behind his usual composure. “You and Eggsy have been spending a lot of time together lately, haven’t you, Tequila?”  
  
“Uh… On and off, I guess, sir.” Jesus Christ, but he felt like some teenager having a conversation alone with a girl’s dad for the first time.  
  
And Hart- damn him- was ever bit as difficult to figure out as Eggsy was, so he had no way of telling if he was bothered by the time Tequila had been spending with Eggsy, or if he approved of it. Either way, Tequila was immensely uncomfortable.  
  
Finally Hart said, “Interesting. Have a fine day, Agent Tequila.”  
  
Then he turned and walked back into the medical bay, as though the conversation they’d just had never happened.  
  
“Brits,” Tequila whispered, pulling off his hat so he could drag a hand through his hair. “Fucking _Brits_ , man.”  
   
[---]  
   
Eggsy passed out.  
  
It wasn’t some big, dramatic thing: One minute he was walking beside Tequila, and the next he was sliding down the wall and onto the floor. He’d evidently even had enough internal warning to steady himself on the wall before he went down.  
  
Funny enough, it was Tequila who’d felt like passing out originally, given that he’d initiated this conversation in order to lightly prod Eggsy into checking in with Ginger about his health. The younger man had, at that point, indisputably lost weight; and as a man  
who’d worked hard to keep himself in good shape over the years, Tequila was well-aware of how much weight a person could _healthily_ lose in a certain amount of time, with deliberate effort on their part, and Eggsy had exceeded that.  
  
That wasn’t good.  
  
He had no idea if Hart had said something to him or if he was biding his time, but Tequila had planned on poking a little bit into it today.  
  
And then Eggsy passed out.  
  
He went down so slowly that Tequila was confused for a second. “What the hell’re you doing, kid, I- Oh, oh shit-” He quickly knelt down and got his arms around Eggsy before the kid could fall forward or backward and crack his head on the floor. Thank _fuck_ they were already walking towards the medical bay, because that had been part of Tequila’s plan and now, wouldn’t you know it, Eggsy didn’t have much of a choice about whether he went in or not.  
  
Tequila half-carried, half-pulled him into the medical bay; Eggsy, as it was, seemed just _barely_ conscious, because he was somewhat able to stumble despite being incoherent. “Hey, y’all, I need some help here! Now!” Tequila boomed out to the technicians, two of who quickly darted over to help him.  
  
Ginger came out of one of the labs at the back. “What happened?” She asked, rushing over to the bed Tequila and the technicians managed to get Eggsy onto.  
  
“I don’t even know, Ginger, he just kind of passed out in the hallway- didn’t hit his head or nothing, just slid right down the wall.” He grimaced. “That’s not actually true, I do know- he’s been in a bad way lately, I think he’s been drinking a little too much, and he’s lost a lot of weight-”  
  
“Eggsy!”  
  
Hart came stalking in, looking about as deeply concerned as a man could get. Tequila would go so far as to call it paternal. “What happened? Are you alright?”  
  
“You should maybe step out,” Ginger whispered to him while Hart was distracted. “From what I understand, Eggsy’s like a son to Harry. He may give you the third degree.” She raised her eyebrows at him pointedly. “And then some.”  
  
Eggsy was starting to rally a little now that he was off his feet, and he seemed to be responding to Harry’s attention. Tequila felt compelled to stay, to make sure he was alright, not wanting to be suddenly missing when Eggsy came to his senses and started looking for him.  
_  
Wow, what an ego: He’s got Hart here and Merlin in the next room. He has his people, so why the hell would he be looking for you?_  
  
Tequila swallowed, and then nodded. “Yeah, alright. I’ll be back later.”  
  
Ginger patted his arm sympathetically, and he left.  
   
[---]  
   
Tequila waited exactly forty-seven minutes and eighteen seconds before heading back to the medical bay.  
  
(Yeah, he counted the seconds, so what? He had nothing better to do.)  
  
He poked his head inside cautiously, like a turtle checking to make sure the hawk (or whatever the fuck it was that ate turtles) was gone before popping out of its shell. Tequila did not see Hart, but he could hear him talking from the direction of Merlin’s bed. He slipped into the medical bay as quietly as he could and made a beeline for Ginger, who started when he suddenly appeared beside her.  
  
“ _Geez!_ Tequila! Don’t do that!” She hissed.  
  
“Sorry, sorry- How’s he doing?”  
  
Ginger softened a little. “Wow, you’ve got it for this one, don’t you?”  
  
Tequila was momentarily distracted by her phrasing. “Wait, ‘this one’? How many people have I brought home for your approval, Ginger?”  
  
“About as many as you’ve set on fire- so about three,” She responded without missing a beat. “And yes, Tequila, Eggsy is fine. Or he will be- he’s just really dehydrated, really undernourished, and really exhausted. And probably really traumatized, too, but they don’t pay me enough to be a therapist.”  
  
“What was he trying to _do?_ ” Tequila whispered. “Kill himself?”  
  
“Stress is a funny thing, Tequila,” Ginger said with a shrug. “Sometimes it drives people to eat, and sometimes it drives them to barely eat at all; sometimes it makes them sleep, and sometimes it keeps them awake for days on end.”  
  
“He said his stomach had been hurting the other day,” Tequila supplied. “Said he wasn’t feeling well.” He hesitated. “And he was… He was drinking a _lot_ , Ginger. And I say that as someone who’s known people with alcohol problems before- he looked like he was imbibing pretty regularly. Galahad Senior said it wasn’t normal for him.”  
  
“Harry and I talked,” Ginger said with a vaguely evasive air. “And I got some information from him. In any case, I think we’ve covered all of our bases: Eggsy should be back on his feet within the next day or two.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “I don’t know if he’s awake or not, but you can go see him if you like.”  
  
Tequila sighed. “Thanks, Ging.” She gave his shoulder another pat, and then pointed him towards Eggsy’s bed.  
  
Eggsy _did_ seem to be asleep at first, but once Tequila came up beside the bed to check, his eyes opened. “Hey.”  
  
“Hey.”  
  
There was a brief, awkward pause.  
  
“You doing alright?”  
  
Eggsy gave a half-shrug that was stifled by the fact that he was lying on his side, shoulder pressed into the bed. “I’ve been better, mate.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess you probably have.”  
  
Another awkward pause.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Tequila mumbled. “I’d have stuck around, but Ginger thought it might be best if I backed off a bit.”  
  
“No,” Eggsy said, shaking his head. “I should apologize. I’ve not been right the last few weeks. I’m not usually this way.”  
  
“You mean a miserable, horny drunk on a diet?”  
  
Eggsy snorted and smiled an actual, genuine smile, the first one Tequila had seen on him in a while. “My stomach hurt,” he said. “And then I didn’t eat because my stomach hurt, and I drank because I felt sick and shitty and didn’t want to be completely coherent for it, and that made my stomach hurt, so I didn’t eat- you get where I’m going.”  
  
“I do.” Tequila hesitated. “I wasn’t joking, that night I told you I used to do worse stuff than pot. I know what it’s like to want to be out of your head.”  
  
“Yeah, well, my bit was more like being out of my bloody mind. Bad combination, what I was doing.”  
  
“I’d say so, yeah.”  
  
Another pause, longer and slightly less awkward this time.  
  
“I should probably let you sleep.”  
  
“Alright.” Tequila turned to go. “Tequila?”  
  
Tequila turned back. “Yeah?”  
  
Eggsy looked uncomfortable. “I haven’t, uh… I haven’t put you off, have I?”  
  
“Put me off?” Tequila repeated, uncertain.  
  
“Put you off- made you nervous? Bothered you? Made you feel like you made a mistake in… Being around me?” He cocked an eyebrow up at that, the implication obvious even if he didn’t say it outright.  
  
“What? No, I’m not… ‘Put off’. Just… Just worried about you.” Tequila shuffled in place uncomfortably. “You wouldn’t be the first guy I’ve seen go a bad way after some shit went down.”  
  
“I am sorry for being such an ass,” Eggsy said, clearly embarrassed, breaking and reestablishing eye-contact with Tequila like it was too difficult for him to maintain. “I can’t have been fun to deal with over the last few weeks.”  
  
“It wasn’t all bad,” Tequila said lightly, suggestively. “And I… I do like you, man. Wouldn’t have bothered with you if I didn’t.” He smiled slightly. “So get better, yeah? I want to spend some more time with you.”  
  
He was trying to be sweet.  
  
He was _trying_ to be a gentleman.  
  
And this was what he got in return:  
  
“If I don’t, are you going to knock me out, tie me to a chair, and set my balls on fire again?”  
  
Tequila’s eyes fairly rolled back into his head, and Eggsy laughed so hard he started coughing.  
   
[---]  
   
So there’s this saying.  
  
You’ll find it on all sorts of cowboy paraphernalia: Bumper-stickers, t-shirts, stickers, belts, you name it. It’s purred suggestively in bars and quipped on TV and in movies whenever the opportunity presents itself.  
  
‘Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”  
  
And oh dear Lord, was Eggsy Unwin saving a _lot_ of horses today.  
  
“Shit, shit, shit, fuck, shit, _fuck_ -”  
  
Eggsy was better healthy.  
  
“Oh my holy fucking SHIT-”  
  
He was _so_ much better healthy, and it was better for the both of them, really. Tequila’s fantasies hadn’t done Eggsy justice: Back to (more or less) full health, his body was a work of fucking _art._ And being as young as he was, he hadn’t accumulated any particularly noticeable scars, which was a rarity in Tequila’s business.  
  
“Going a little too, too, too hard for you?” Eggsy panted, stuttering to a stop so he could grin down at Tequila. He had stamina too, and a _surprising_ amount of self-control; he could start and stop the fucking whenever he liked, shoot the breeze, and then get right back to it like it was no big thing.  
  
Tequila, meanwhile, was so fucked up that he couldn’t even do his usual litany of inventive swearing and explicit sexual promises. He was just reduced to mindless swearing because that was all he could do. Eggsy rode cock so well, Tequila could barely remember his own name- which was actually kind of important at the moment.  
  
“Oi, I’ve just realized,” Eggsy said, rocking agonizingly slowly as Tequila’s fingers dug into his hips, “I don’t actually know your real name.”  
  
“You just, just figuring n-n- _now_ to a-a-a-a-ask me?” Tequila stuttered, and God he was so hard you could _look_ at his cock funny and he’d probably come. “J-Jesus Christ.”  
  
“So what _is_ your real name?” Eggsy inquired leisurely, like they _weren’t_ in the middle of what they were in the middle of.  
  
“Are you k-k- _kidding_ me?!”  
  
“Come on,” Eggsy drawled, not increasing his speed in the least, and Tequila got the hint.  
  
“ _Fuck_ , we need you to interrogate all our prisoners, you’d have ‘em beggin’ for mercy so goddamn fast- Jim, alright? My name’s Jim.”  
  
“Lovely to meet you, Jim,” Eggsy responded before resuming the brutal pace that had originally worked Tequila into his current state.  
  
Afterwards, when they were cooling off, Eggsy’s head was on Tequila’s chest the way it had been the night of the movie, and Tequila was feeling pretty good about that.  
  
“I’ve got some news for you.”  
  
“If you say ‘I’m pregnant’ I’m gonna throw you on the frickin’ floor.”  
  
Eggsy laughed maybe a little more madly than he should have, and Tequila was seriously concerned about the trolling possibilities he could face from this kid in the future. “No… But it does involve a pretty big change in lifestyle for you, if you want it.”  
  
“And what’s that?” Tequila asked, idly dragging his hand up and down between Eggsy’s shoulder-blades.  
  
“Champ is thinking about sending a member of Statesmen to London,” Eggsy said. “You know, like a representative and all that.” He raised his eyebrows. “And… He’s thinking it might be you.”  
  
Tequila’s eyes widened. By all appearances, Eggsy didn’t seem to be joking; so this was real? Seriously? “Holy shit, you’re serious, ain’t you?”  
  
“I am serious,” Eggsy responded sincerely. And for the first time, the unreadable expression cracked a little, became just readable enough that Tequila could see what was beneath it:  
  
Excitement and hopefulness.  
  
He wanted Tequila to come to London with him.  
  
The prospect was intimidating, of course: Country roads weren’t just the lyrics to a song for Tequila. Kentucky, the South, the United States was his home just like London and England was Eggsy’s, and the idea of packing up and leaving it behind was a daunting one at best.  
  
Still, he’d done crazier things for Statesmen.

And for his lovers.  
  
“What the hell,” Tequila said, all while considering that making these kinds of important decisions in the midst of a spectacular afterglow was _not_ what Champ would call good-decision-making. “I guess I can hop across the pond for a while. And once I get tired of you, I’ll head on back.”  
  
Eggsy laughed again, and it actually did _hurt_ a bit, in a good way, to see the delight in his eyes when Tequila said it. “I’ll have to make sure I stay interesting, then.”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t really see you having a problem with that.”  
  
“I suppose I can always try setting _your_ balls on-”  
  
Tequila kissed him to shut him up.  
   
-End


End file.
